


Clara Oswald and the adventures in 221C Baker Street

by Silver_Dipstick



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27481444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Dipstick/pseuds/Silver_Dipstick
Summary: After the Doctor leaves Clara's apartment in... disrepair, she moves into 221C Baker Street. What unusual happenings will occur with the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson across the hall? What of her adventures with the doctor? Mycroft? Unit? Read and find out...
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, Sherlock Holmes/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Clara Oswald and the adventures in 221C Baker Street

221C Baker Street was certainly not one of the most desirable apartments in London, in fact given its history and the state of the place in general it wasn’t a grand mystery as to why no one had moved in there. All in all, Sherlock had never given the apartment a second thought after the case Watson had dubbed ‘A Study in Pink’. That is until, of course, Mrs. Hudson had made the trip upstairs to his shared apartment and informed him that a young couple had come inquiring about the apartment and were in fact going to be moving in the very next week.

The possibilities immediately began to whir through Sherlock’s mind: enemies? Spies? Or just young couple trying to find cheap rent in one of the most expensive cities in the world? As he was out when they had visited, he had no way of deducing much without a little more information.

“You wouldn’t be able to give me a name for our new housemates, would you?” Sherlock asked, fingers steepled under his chin already, sitting back into his chair. If they we’re young and looking for cheap housing, where were they going to get the money for renovations? The plausibility of innocence was already falling apart for Sherlock. Naivety? Maybe. Unlikely.

“Oh yes, I suppose you’ll be needing that anyway,” she started, already aware that Sherlock would get the information one way or another, “Clara Oswald, her name was, left her number and details downstairs. Not sure about the man, I think he was a doctor?”

Hmm, a doctor? Perhaps they did have the money to do the place up. He’d have to look into it. Not even noticing as Mrs. Hudson took her leave; he pulled his laptop towards him. Clara Oswald, who are you?

* * *

Clara flitted happily around the TARDIS, careful of the big cans of paint still rolling around the floor after their usual bumpy flight. It was a full crew today, herself, Jenny, Strax, Madame Vastra, the Osgood twins, and of course, the Doctor, had all met up to help her move to her new apartment. After an unfortunate incident involving the doctor deconstructing a toaster in her living room – well let’s just say there wasn’t much of an apartment left. Nevertheless, she took this as a new opportunity in a new place (that was conveniently closer to the school she worked at), despite the loss of personal [word for property thing, artifacts kinda?]. Thankfully taking full responsibility for the incident, the Doctor insisted on finding a new apartment for her to rent, and paying for the first year there too. How he came up with the money she’d never know. Despite this being the only apartment in a three mile radius he’d approved of, when they went to visit they’d found the place in dire straits. But he’d insisted, after a bit of fixing up, it’d be the place for her. A lovely fireplace, nice landlady, and relatively large. So they’d assembled the crew and flown off, all the while praying to whatever higher powers there were to not be murdered by the various flying paint cans whilst the TARDIS flung them about.

They’d parked quite close to the building and all shared the burden of carrying supplies, despite Strax’s cries of carrying everything for the glory of the Sontaran Empire. They must have looked like an odd bunch, thought Clara as they stalked the last street to their destination. She’d dressed quite sensibly in scruffy clothes for painting in, with the next most sensible being the Osgood twins, who while in lab coats, were at least somewhat protected and presumably had a large stash of lab coats somewhere. Jenny and Vasta were matching in Victorian combat gear and a veil for the latter, with Strax taking up the rear holding a stack around three times his height in Ikea furniture, all white in a tuxedo. And then there was the Doctor. Always the heart of any conversation, the light in any room, absolutely captivating. And he was wearing what looked to be the equivalent of a crop top and massive hooped skirt, that would apparently extend to become a platform and let him reach high places – Clara daredn’t ask why they couldn’t use a step ladder.

Eventually they’d arrived, and while Clara had been given a key the last time she’d been there and given a security deposit, there was no one home in any of the three apartments. Huh, at least they didn’t have to answer any awkward questions. Letting themselves in, the group quickly got to work.

It was odd that no one was home in either of the two apartments yet, despite the late hour, although it had helped them finish up without distractions. The rooms where all stripped of the rotting wallpaper and painted (and surprisingly most of the paint was indeed on the walls and not on each other) and dried with a strange contraption the Doctor had bought from the Ancient Markets of Plaktyia III, and with a couple more trips to the TARDIS, most of the new furniture was installed along with any personal objects that had been salvaged. The kitchen was mostly complete, only waiting on a washing machine and dryer, with the living room completely finished, along with the bedroom and bathroom. The spare room was bare for the moment, except for a few errant boxes that couldn’t fit in the bins. The bins themselves were odd, and the Doctor had warned her away from them, saying to not empty them at night, and while she didn’t get a good look at what he’d scanned with his remarkable screwdriver, it had looked suspiciously… red.

The rest of the gang had said their goodbyes for the day, it had been remarkable what’d they’d achieved, not even side-tracked once for a minor alien invasion or imminent universal collapse. It was kind of worrying actually. Oh well. Clara decided on one last cup of tea before bed, sinking into the plush armchair by the fire she’d claimed for herself, she could solve the mystery of her flatmates tomorrow.

* * *

Sherlock had a mixed day. On one hand, he had solved the mystery of Irene Addler, and gotten Mycroft off his case for a while in the process; but Mrs. Hudson had gotten hurt and that meant that all three of them were out of the house all day while the new neighbour moved in. It was quite lucky they’d missed the American CIA themselves, if they were in fact innocent and not well trained intel officers themselves. He’d have to see when he got back.

It was late when they all arrived back, the first noticeable change as they walked through the door being that the carpet to 221C was fairly trodden, seemingly by a fair few people, friends helping them move? The other was the overpowering smell of fresh paint, strong even through the door.

Watson raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, content looking at his reaction to whatever he could deduce, rather than trying to look for himself.

“Well..?” John asked, as they took the stairs up to their apartment.

“Well, what, John?” Sherlock replied in answer.

“Anything… funny?”

“Hmmm, no. A few people passing through, most likely friends helping out. Fresh paint is a good sign. Well only one way to find out anyway.” With that Sherlock dropped his things, taking off his scarf and overcoat without missing a beat, and turning back downstairs.

“Sherlock, its late! You can’t just disturb them at this time on their first day in, just wait until the morning –“

It was too late. Sherlock had already begun knocking on the door. Three short and sharp raps on the door.

No reply.

Three more.

No reply.

Three more.

No reply.

“Look Sherlock, they might not even be in – after all they’ve only just painted it”

Three more.

No reply.

With this, Sherlock simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. A key like theirs, but not.

“No. Sherlock, no. We are not doing this tonight.”

With about as much reply from Sherlock as the inhabitants of 221C, it seemed that they were, in fact, doing this tonight. And much to their surprise, they opened the door to a fully furnished house, if a bit sparse, with a young woman curled up asleep on one of the armchairs.

Sherlock turned to Watson with a finger on his lips and motioned for him the check the kitchen. Watson simply sighed in defeat and raised an angry eyebrow to show his displeasure – only earning him a signature Sherlock a-hole smirk. Sherlock himself had taken to inspecting the lounge and the young woman herself. She locked soft, exactly like the photos and information he’d already gathered. Early twenties, local school teacher, previously a nanny for family friends, deceased mother, but alive father giving her some credibility, apartment burned down in toaster accident not long ago, very little salvaged. It was a well done story if fake. Everything seemed right, while it was strange to see the place cleaned up so quickly, it was not impossible, and as he looked around further he found a few odd objects and photos, most singed and still smelling of smoke, adding even more credibility. But he still wasn’t convinced. A cold mug of tea sat on the side table next to her. He dipped a finger in and tasted. Two sugars, quite strong. He leaned over and inspected the young woman herself, she certainly looked the part of the English high school teacher, and she had paint flecks all over her too. Hmmm. There was just something, something , something not adding up.

Regardless of this he quietly moved to the bedroom. It too, was fairly plain. The walls were a pale yellow with one deeper yellow behind the double bed that had been painted to look like sunflowers. It had not much else past the standard bedroom attire, wardrobe, mirror, bedside table. It was a photo on the side table that intrigue him. It was of the young woman – Clara – and a man, both smiling at the camera, this must be the doctor boyfriend of hers who might not have been here tonight for any number of reasons. But the background, he couldn’t place it. There were no clues to the place, country anything, it just felt, off. His gut was betraying his common sense, not something that happened often, Sherlock could admit. There was nothing wrong, the evidence added up, but there was something so wrong, something right in front of him, he just didn’t know what. Giving a once over of the room to make sure he hadn’t disturbed anything, he tracked back out into the corridor. He gave a little peak into the spare room, where the door was slightly ajar, but it was empty bar a few boxes. So he made his way into to living room with an expectant John waiting for him, looking a little smug. He motioned for Sherlock to go first and then clicked the door shut behind him.

They were silent until they got upstairs.

“There was absolutely nothing wrong. All ordinary neighbour things, couple of moving boxes on the floor with cutlery and space for a washing machine, just an ordinary neighbour for once, which we have, for the record, just broke into their house.” John stated.

Sherlock took a second before replying, “I’m inclined to agree. All the evidence supports my information, or it’s a very good fake.” He frowned at the end, not voicing his guts displeasure. Sherlock never was one to take his heart over his head. He’d reflect in his mind palace tonight.

Taking this as a victory John called an end to the night, “Well you’re welcome to stay up, I’m going to bed.” Before taking refuge in his room after a long day.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock himself retired, as while he did feel something off, there was plenty of time to deduce in the morning, and he was worn out after the long day chasing Irene around one last time. So as much as he loathed to admit it, he laid down and relaxed into his mattress. If he strained his ears, he could hear John’s faint breathing in the next room over, and he slowed to match it. It didn’t take long for him to begin to drift off, one thought on the tip of his tongue, consuming his brain right before it’s demise for the eve.

221C, all renovated in one day. How was the paint dry?


End file.
